


Please, Keep the Shorts On

by timeandspaceandbackagain



Series: Adrenaline, Sweat, Grass and Sex [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, John Watson Plays Rugby, John is Fit, M/M, Rugby, Sherlock loves Rugby Kit, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-07 17:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandspaceandbackagain/pseuds/timeandspaceandbackagain
Summary: John takes up rugby again and Sherlock is... very much in favour.





	1. Please, Keep the Shorts On

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn't Like His Doctors Clean Shaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000214) by [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl). 

> Note 09-09-2018: I've now made this a standalone work and decided to add what would have been following chapters as futher works in a series instead; as I've been writing that has started to feel more natural, as each chapter is fairly standalone. Hope this doesn't cause too much confusion! Second chapter/work is up now. 
> 
> *****
> 
> Well, this is my first Sherlock/John fic, and I bashed it out in just a few hours because I woke up in the middle of the night with a thought in my head that I just couldn't shake until I got it down on paper! I know the fandom is a bit quieter these days, but I have recently started getting back into reading fanfic and really enjoying it again, so I hope that this may bring enjoyment to some other people too. 
> 
> I play rugby myself and am a bit obesessed with it, so I couldn't resist writing a rugby-centric fic. I already have a plan for a second chapter and who knows, we might even get to see Sherlock in a little bit of rugby kit... I've put some notes on Rugby terminology at the end for anyone not quite familiar.
> 
> Partially inspired by allonsys_girl whose fic about rugby-playing John with a beard was definitely the reason I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Particularly the line about John pressing Sherlock up against some lockers... something close to that may feature in the second chapter. However in my fic John doesn't have a beard, sorry guys!

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at the sound of John’s key in the front door downstairs and blinked a few times. He hadn’t realised he’d been at his experiment so long – it felt like John had only just left, dropping a kiss onto his mussed curls – but here he was back from rugby training, so it must have been at least two-and-a-half hours. His eyes did a feel a bit dry, now he thought about it. Dehydration. Boring. He noticed the full, forgotten cup of tea at his elbow, presumably left there by John at the same time as the kiss and glared at it, as though it deliberately mocked him. Grimacing, he drained it in one, surprisingly feeling marginally better for doing so.

  
John pushed open the door with his shoulder and dumped his kit and boot bags on the floor, cheerfully kicking them into their designated corner (Mrs Hudson didn’t approve but it was infinitely preferable to gunshots in the wallpaper and eyeballs in the microwave, so John was still the favourite and thus got away with it).

  
“You finally got one over on Will then I see”.

  
John shucked his trainers off (they joined the pile in the corner) and stepped across to Sherlock in his muddy rugby socks, grinning as he placed a kiss on his proffered lips, head tilting up as he sat on the kitchen chair.

  
“I’m not even going to ask how you know that, you mad genius. But yes, we were having a full contact run through at the end and I gave him an almighty hand-off and he went down on his arse like a ton of bricks. Felt incredible. I scored from it as well”.

  
Sherlock chuckled, just a low rumble that barely left his chest. John’s delight was infectious. “Excellent. He seemed like an arrogant arse at the last game I attended. Seeing as you won’t let me tell everyone he’s cheating on his wife with the physio, I suppose this will have to do.”

  
“Did you, Sherlock Holmes, just call somebody else an arrogant arse?” John’s eyes twinkled.

  
Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Yes, well, at least I have the goods to back it up with. I am a ‘mad genius’ as you put it yourself. Not that it was a difficult leap to work out the particular reason for your good humour, considering that this time two-weeks’ ago you were grumbling about him spear tackling you during a non-contact game and that he needed taking down a peg or two. Although you felt the need to tell me, I had already deduced that you had scored, apparent from the particular spread of mud on your jersey, indicating sliding across the ground on your belly with the ball tucked under your left arm. The traces of white paint indicate that it was the try line. Your hand-"

  
“God I love you, you insufferable prick” John murmured as he cut Sherlock off with a kiss, sliding his tongue directly into his open mouth.

  
“Mmmphh-" Sherlock’s hands came up to grasp at John as he responded to the kiss, one going around the back of his head to tangle in his short, sweat-damp hair, the other clutching at the front of his shirt. After several moments, John pulled back, panting softly as he leant his forehead against Sherlock’s. He was still smiling, and Sherlock couldn’t help but return it. He licked his shining lips, and released John’s hair as he straightened up, slipping his hand down instead to hold John’s hip as he stood above him. He shivered, relishing the unusual disparity in their heights, and dropped his gaze to the front of John’s rugby shorts, where he could see that he was sporting the beginnings of an erection. He licked his lips again, greedily. God he loved those shorts. John smirked down at Sherlock, revelling in the way his breath was quickening, almost imperceptibly. Almost. But not to John.

Sherlock wasn’t the only one with keen powers of observation (though he often forgot this) and John had noticed Sherlock’s dark eyes and elevated pulse rate the minute he stepped in the door in his kit. Not that he needed to notice anything – the effect his rugby kit had on Sherlock was well-known, all the better when he was muddy and sweaty along with it. They had made the delightful discovery just over a year ago last September, when John decided to go back to playing again, saying he needed to do some form of fitness other than chasing after serial killers - which was sporadic at best and not actually that good for muscle definition, as it turned out. But it turned out John’s cardio was better than expected for a man his age, so it was good for something at least. John sometimes wondered when he had started seeing silver linings in serial killings, and figured it was all Sherlock’s fault. Such was his life now.

  
Back in the present, Sherlock was reverently running both hands now up and down over the sides of John’s shorts, occasionally slipping a hand up to stroke at John’s belly underneath the jersey, feeling the definition of his abs and the tempting line of dark-blonde hair running down into the shorts. They also dropped down every now and then and ran from the back to the front of John’s thighs, feeling the power in his quads and hamstrings. John looked down, and saw that Sherlock was openly panting, and tenting his pyjama bottoms. Finally, he gripped the waistband at the front of John’s shorts and tugged insistently, and John sank down onto his lap, placing his arms on either side of his head on the back of the chair. Sherlock’s breath quickened further at that and he tilted his face up again, eyes burning with heat now, silently begging for another kiss. John dipped his face down and captured Sherlock’s mouth with his own, as he felt those elegant hands come up from his shorts to grasp at his biceps, firm and strong after a year of playing. Sherlock groaned as he did so, the first proper noise he had made since John had cut off his deduction a few minutes ago, and John revelled in it, not quite believing that he, John Watson was somehow fit enough to cause a devastatingly gorgeous man to _groan_ just from touching his arms. He felt a tiny bit smug, but mostly just deliriously lucky. He licked into Sherlock’s mouth desperately, the tension suddenly rising exponentially, and began to rock his hips forward, pressing his now prominent erection into Sherlock’s belly.

  
Sherlock was moaning nearly continuously now, and grabbing at John’s arse to pull him more firmly against him whilst rocking his own hips up, desperately seeking friction. John pulled slightly away from his mouth to take that delectable bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just enough so that Sherlock was whimpering. God, John loved him like this, so needy and sensual. He was utterly breath-taking. John brought one hand from the back of the chair to cup Sherlock’s head, feeling his silky curls slip between his fingers, leaning forward once more to curl his tongue around Sherlock’s. They kissed frantically for a few more minutes before Sherlock dragged his mouth away, placing a hand on John’s chest –

  
“Fuck, John, I-“ He sounded wrecked. His eyes were squeezed shut as he shook his head, curls bobbing. “I- How do you do this to me? I, please, I need you…”

  
John kissed each of his closed eyelids tenderly, listening to their gasping breaths in the silence of the kitchen, nothing but the brisk October wind audible from outside.

“God, Sherlock, what I do to you? Look at you, what did I do to deserve you, you gorgeous creature. Come here”.

  
With that, John stood up again and pulled Sherlock to his feet, who had a brief moment to look both bewildered and somewhat affronted before John picked him up, hands underneath him where thigh met buttock, cradling him. At this, Sherlock threw his head back and moaned with wild abandon, legs instinctively going around John’s waist. Distantly, John realised he’d never actually tried picking Sherlock up before. He was heavy, no mistake, being as tall as he was, but hours spent in the gym combined with adrenaline and arousal made John feel as if he could hold him forever. Instead, he turned round and stepped to the side of the microscope (he knew it wasn’t worth his life to touch that, no matter how good the sex was) and swept aside some of Sherlock’s notes and the abandoned tea cup, before depositing Sherlock onto the kitchen table and crowding close between his legs. Upon realising that John was not only holding him up, but with one hand only whilst he cleared the table, Sherlock practically wailed (John hoped for her sake that Mrs Hudson had the telly on very, very loud). The detective was flushing a furious red and clutching desperately at John’s hair, his blue dressing gown had slipped off one shoulder along with the neck of his t-shirt, exposing the hollows at the base of his lovely long throat, also mottled with the blush spreading down from his face.

  
“Shh, it’s alright, I’ve got you… God Sherlock the state of you…”

  
“John, please, oh God, please fuck me. I need you to fuck me right here. Now. John-"

  
John growled and in one motion stripped his dirty jersey off over his head and threw it across the room, before gripping Sherlock’s chin with one hand and kissing him thoroughly.

“Fucking hell Sherlock, anything you want. Anything”.

  
Sherlock groaned and dragged a hand down John’s bare chest, nails scratching at his sweat and mud-streaked skin, loving the feel of the crisp curls of his sparse chest hair.  
“But, keep the shorts on. Please. Here-“ He broke away from John’s mouth long enough to root around in the pocket of his dressing gown for the lube he more often than not kept there these days. He thrust it at John - who just managed to fumble and grab it - before looping his arms back around his neck and licking at his mouth. John captured Sherlock’s tongue between his lips and sucked on it, eliciting another deep moan, before pushing Sherlock away gently with one hand, in order to grasp his pyjama bottoms and strip them from his long legs. The action left him bare from the waist down, his dressing gown caught up behind him and pooled on the table. Sherlock leant back on his elbows, breathing hard, legs dangling on either side of John’s waist and his flushed cock straining up as he gazed heatedly at John.

  
“Show me”.

  
John grinned wickedly as he gave Sherlock what he wanted – he slipped a hand underneath the waistband of his shorts and into the tight lycra undershorts, gripping his hard cock and pulling it out as he pulled the shorts down, both pairs, just enough to tuck just under his balls, already heavy with lust. He released himself and let it all hang there, on display, and leaned forward on the table with his knuckles either side of Sherlock’s spread thighs with a predatory look on his face, eyes dark. Sherlock whimpered and felt his mouth start to water. He could _smell_ John from here, he always smelt so much more intense after rugby, which was a large part of why Sherlock loved it so much. He smelt like sweat, and adrenaline, and grass and John and _sex_ and Sherlock was mad for it, for him. For John. He almost wished their positions were reversed so that he could lean down and take John into his mouth, lapping at the slit, tasting him at his most intense, before swallowing him down to the root, pressing his nose into those damp curls where he just smelt so good… But no, that was for another time. Sherlock needed John inside him now, like he needed air, and to make the point he hitched one foot up onto the table with a hand behind his knee, and spread himself open.

  
His voice was low and dark. “Please, John…”

  
John found he also couldn’t wait another second, and grabbed the lube from the table where he’d left it, and coated the fingers of his left hand with military efficiency. As he slid the first finger into Sherlock’s tight heat, he pressed his body forward to kiss Sherlock messily, and their cocks brushed together causing them both to moan. Sherlock panted into his mouth; hot, damp little breaths as John fingered him, soon drawing the first out completely to add another alongside it. After a couple of minutes Sherlock was rocking his hips, pressing down against John’s fingers, trying desperately to get John deeper inside him.

  
“Now John, uhhhn, please, I’m ready, fuck me…” As he spoke he grabbed the lube bottle with trembling fingers, poured some into his hand and hurriedly slathered it all over John’s cock.

  
John slipped his fingers out and grasped Sherlock’s hips, tipping them up slightly as Sherlock brought his long legs up once again around John’s waist, hooking his ankles together behind his back. John gripped his cock at the base and pressed the head against Sherlock’s twitching entrance, before suddenly sliding into the hilt with a hiss as Sherlock bore down and took him in, groaning aloud at the sensation, head dropping back.

  
“Fuck Sherlock, oh my god you feel incredible-“ John was gasping as he began to thrust in earnest, driving his powerful hips forward and silently thanking the power of endorphins for masking the ache that had been setting in after training.

  
“Yes John, oh god, yes, hnnn, you feel so – OH – fucking good inside me.”

Sherlock’s back was sliding back and forth on the table as John fucked into him and he scrabbled for purchase on the table-top, sending papers flying everywhere. The legs of the table were scraping back and forth on the floor in an unmistakeable rhythm and again John distantly thought that he would have to invest in some earplugs for poor Mrs Hudson, but the thought evaporated instantly as Sherlock shouted, John’s cock nudging insistently at that sweet spot inside him. His cock was leaking onto his belly, a quivering strand of pre-come trailing from the tip to his shuddering stomach where his t-shirt had ridden up, and John knew he was close already.

“Touch yourself Sherlock, come on love, come for me-"

  
Sherlock now had one arm thrown up over his face, drawing in shaking breaths and moaning in time with John’s thrusts, “Ah, ah, ah… Ohh… Yes, yes, yes…” like a mantra. At John’s words he slid his other hand down onto his stomach and grasped his own cock, but didn’t begin to stroke immediately, just held it loosely in his fist.

  
“God, John, I’m close- I, Oh yes right there, oh GOD-“ As John thrust harder into him, sensing his (and his own) impending orgasm, Sherlock finally began to touch himself, his thumb and index finger forming a ring that he jerked quickly over the head of his leaking cock, whining now.

  
“Jesus Sherlock, you’re so gorgeous like this, are you going to come like that? I’m so close, you’re getting me close,”

  
“Uhhh, oh, oh, John, yes, oh fucking _hellllll_” With a long drawn out cry Sherlock came, pulsing long hot streaks all over his t-shirt, one even landing on the exposed skin of his clavicle. At the sight of Sherlock’s perfect pink mouth open in a cry, the feel of his body clenching rhythmically, powerfully around his cock, the sight of his come spattering all over his heaving chest, John suddenly found himself right at the edge of release as well.

  
Suddenly, Sherlock jerked his head up and looked at him with huge, dark eyes, pupils blown wide. He panted as he stared directly into John’s eyes:

“Come on John, come in me. Do it. Fucking come in me”.

  
And John did, the power of Sherlock’s words and his look enough to make him curl in on himself, gripping Sherlock’s hips hard enough to bruise as he emptied himself into his body in powerful, thumping pulses, growling as he did so, feeling the hot swoop of his orgasm from the tip of his head to his toes.

  
He collapsed forward onto Sherlock, feeling his legs slip from either side of his waist and just hang off the edge of table, one arm coming up to stroke soothingly over his heaving back. He felt his softening cock slip out of Sherlock and a rush of warm come with it, and he felt an aftershock shudder through him as he thought about it dribbling down the crack of Sherlock’s arse, all over the table, onto the floor. He felt Sherlock shiver and moan weakly at the sensation too, his prick giving a small twitch against John’s stomach.

  
After a few long moments he raised his head from Sherlock’s neck to look at him blearily. He was simply lying there with a small smile on his face, eyes closed, long lashes fanned out against his cheek as he continued to stroke his hand lazily up and down John’s flanks. It can’t have been a particularly comfortable position, his legs hanging down the way they were, the table pressed into his lower back, but it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, and John realised that Sherlock was in the blissed out state achieved only when he got exactly what he wanted.

  
Finally, he seemed to come around and blinked his silver-green eyes up at John, who had now propped himself up on his elbows and was staring down at him, slightly awestruck that he had this type of insane power over Sherlock Holmes. In a movement that seemed sudden compared to his previous stupor, Sherlock bent his head forwards and buried his nose directly into John’s armpit.

“Oi! Sherlock, you creature, I probably reek” John spluttered, but his expression was fond.

  
“Exactly” Sherlock rumbled, that blissed out smile still plastered on his face “My dear Watson, that is exactly the point”.


	2. Note - Sequel is up!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel is now a separate work, [ here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571701)
> 
> Thought I would post this note as a chapter as I know a few people have it bookmarked, I will delete this "Note Chapter" eventually once everyone has found it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the update, sorry it took a while!

Part 2 of "Adrenaline, Sweat, Grass and Sex" - "Those Damn Socks"

<https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571701>

**Author's Note:**

> For those not familiar with rugby or some of the terminology:
> 
> -Full-contact = with tackling, like a real game. Non-contact = no tackling, often played in training to simulate real games, sometimes called "Touch Rugby" where tackles are simulated by grabbing someones hips. Touch is in fact a sport in its own right these days. If you're playing non-contact/Touch in training and you make a full tackle on someone on purpose, you're a bit of a dick really.  
\- Hand-off (Also known as a "fend"). When you stop or attempt to stop someone from tackling you by extending your arm and pushing them away or holding them off with a flat palm (not a fist!). It's a perfectly legal move and often has awesome results, can result in the person attempting to tackle you looking very silly if you pull it off successfully. Great fun to do!  
\- Undershorts. Typically, at least in the UK, we wear tight lycra undershorts underneath a pair of sturdier, baggier shorts. Stops chafing, holds "things" in place (for blokes), stops everything being on display if the other shorts ride up (for men and women!)...  
\- Boot bag. Simply a special bag for keeping your rugby boots in.  
\- Spear tackle. An illegal form of tackle, when someone picks you up and your head goes below your waist as they dump you on the floor. Dangerous because of the potential to land on your head or neck.  
\- Try line. A score in rugby is called a "Try" (for historical reasons) and is worth 5 points, it's scored by touching the ball to the ground on or over the try line. There is one at either end of the pitch, each team aims for one, and they switch ends at half time (40 mins).


End file.
